


crashing waves

by nimic



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Beginning to heal, Confrontation, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Oz is forever a smart bean, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 06:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimic/pseuds/nimic
Summary: Arago after the final fight is just a body laying in the sand, letting wave after wave crash over him, drag him, push him.He's alive, though, at the very least.





	crashing waves

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as vent, finished it off with some GOOD VIBES because that's what we like to see babey!!  
> was gonna try for multiple chapters, but it's really not happening lol :,3
> 
> this is as complete as it's gonna get, so i hope you can enjoy it in its current state !

He's not the type that moves on. He knows this. He didn't move on after Patchman the first time, and really, it only got worse the second time. It's stupid, he thinks now, laying on his bed. The burning red 3:02AM tells him to just get undressed and go to sleep, to stop laying around upside down in his clothes. It's stupid that he's still fucking wallowing. It's stupid that he can't move on, despite everything. Despite getting revenge (twice) (or maybe just once and for all), despite Ewan telling him, spelling it out ("Kill me" and "Thank you"), despite finally getting Seth out of Lia Fàil.

It's stupid.

The wallowing, it used to- it used to make him move. He would sit and stew for a short while, and then he'd be off. Anything at all to keep him from being alone with his thoughts, anything to stay occupied. Lead to lead, fight to fight, death to death, always moving (always mourning). He's done now, though. He feels used up, tired, empty; there's so many words that just don't express how his bones feel heavy and hollow at the same time, how sometimes he gets angry, really angry, with no prompting, then stays like that all day, how most of the time, he's not sure he can feel anymore (like he's used up all his feelings) (a lifetime quota for feeling sounds dumb, but hey, what if?). Nothing really hits home, and all he knows is that he doesn't have any energy anymore.

It's stupid.

It's especially stupid because he still works. He still has his job and his friends and Brionac; he still finds some amount of purpose in helping others and stopping just short of throwing his life away for them (let's be real though, there are few left who pose enough of a challenge to be a threat to his life).

He feels bad about Ewan. About not being able to save him, in the end. About how this was all his fault. How Joe was his fault. How Oz and Seth were so close to being his fault. How, after finally learning their stories, he wishes he could have helped the horsemen, kept them out of Patchman's clutches, given them something more, something better. He feels bad about _just_ feeling bad. What's in the past can't be changed, you can only move forward, but it's all he can do anymore to just keep up. To exist. It's exhausting.

 

Every now and then it creeps up on him, the feeling of being out of place. The precinct is where it's the worst, because then he knows exactly why he feels so wrong (he still doesn't feel like he belongs, he doesn't think he ever will). Sometimes he turns around to ask Joe something and has to stop and stare at the empty space. He thinks he catches a glimpse of the old man, turning around the corner, through the crack of a door, right behind someone’s shoulder. It always ruins the rest of his day and, if he's being honest? It probably ruins his friends' day too.

He hates that they notice. He hates that Rio knows his ticks and Coco is so sensitive to everyone's moods, including his own. He hates that Seth gives him a _look_ and even a smile because Seth never used to smile like that, but now he smiles like that, and it's for Arago, it's for _him_. He doesn't see Oz as much, but Oz also knows. And what's worse, Oz seems to get it, more than the others.

He tries to avoid Oz.

 

It's a normal (empty, god, so empty) day a month or two after he decides it'd be better to just keep himself out of everyone's way when Oz finally manages to corner him, and in his own flat no less.

“Can’t you keep anything more than chocolate bars around?” he starts.

“Seriously?” Arago scoffs, as if Oz doesn’t know how little he can actually eat. “You don’t even live here.”

“Can’t hurt,” he smiles, flopping into a seat at the table, leaning his head onto his hand. Arago is tempted to say that yes, it can hurt, but small talk feels wrong for some reason. Maybe it’s that there hasn’t been any small talk in a while. Maybe it’s that Oz looks unusually uncomfortable in his own skin, still, like he’s fighting the urge to fidget, except Oz never fidgets.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself," Oz says, voice low and soft and understanding in a way that for some reason pisses Arago off.

"I'm not doing anything," he hisses out, ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach, dropping his jacket on the pile of clothes near the door and moving his gaze to his stupid empty sink.

"You're isolating yourself. Your friends are worried." That gets to him, makes his throat tight and his eyes sting. "I'm worried, too," Oz adds, sounding just a bit like someone's punched him, and it makes Arago's throat feel all the more constricted.

"There's nothing to worry about, I'm-" he bites back the swear, holds his hand down so it can’t reach his ear (he knows they know) (he hates it), takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, to not choke over his next words. "I'm fine, just feeling a bit _crowded_ , thanks," he says, giving Oz a pointed look. "Don't worry about it."

Oz raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, because of course he'd see through the lie. The silence is stifling now. Arago wants Oz out, so he can go back to wallowing. Throw himself onto his stupid unmade bed and curl up in the corner and pretend his dreams won’t make him nauseous (he’s seen too much blood, too much death, he just wants a break, god, how much longer does he have to suffer for a _fucking break_ ). Oz just stares, like he knows that, given enough time, Arago will admit that yes, he is isolating himself, yeah, he’s pushing his friends away, and that, god, he can’t even remember what it was like to be happy beyond a vague disconnected sense of the fact that he did, at some point, feel that emotion; that some nights he still hears Rio crying, “Why couldn’t it have been you! Why couldn’t you have died instead of Ewan!” - that it makes him want to cry too.

He won’t back down though. If there is a single thing that Arago Hunt still has left, it’s his determination to not drag everyone down with him as he crashes and burns. He’s no idiot. Nights alone have given him more than enough time to approach this with a detective’s perspective, analyse and pick apart the little things that have turned him into who he is, that have buried his past self in a heavy, endless sludge. He glares a little harder at Oz.

“Are you just gonna stay here and try to baby me if I don’t literally kick you out the door? Is that the plan?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

_If that’s what it takes_ , he says. Arago huffs and goes to his cupboards, skims over the few ramen packets that would keep him in the kitchen too long. He grabs a handful of chocolate bars and does his best to not stomp his way over to his bed. He falls onto it face first , clothes and shoes still on, gives his head a moment to stop spinning, and grabs the closest book off the floor before rolling onto his back and making himself comfortable, a chocolate bar in one hand, book in the other. He distinctly does not make eye contact with Oz again. Maybe he’ll get the message.

“You can’t intimidate me into leaving, Arago.” Oz huffs.

“Can I cold shoulder you into it though?”

Oz gives him a pointed look (not that he sees it) (it’s the principle of the matter). “I’ll have you know that I am fully prepared to spend the night here and follow you into work tomorrow.” Oz’s voice is deceptively playful and light and Arago fucking _chokes_.

“I don’t know if you’ve had a look around, yeah? But _there isn’t any space for someone your size in here_.”

“Oh don’t worry about it, I’m used to sleeping in tight spaces and tight situations.” Oz grins, and again, if Arago had taken another bite of his chocolate bar, he’d have choked (he’s considering not even finishing it at this point) (what a damn waste).

“And where exactly would this ‘tight space’ be?” Arago scowls, finally letting their eyes meet again. “I hope you don’t plan on sleeping in my bed because I _swear_ \- I will not only kick you out but I’ll do it _without_ my gloves on. You deserve the burns-”

He cuts himself off. Oz doesn’t actually deserve the burns and he feels terrible for letting the words leave his mouth in the first place. His eyes zero back in on the page in front of him.

_Shit_.

He might just end up letting Oz stay the night, if only to appease the guilt beginning to coil at the bottom of his gut. The few bites he's had of the chocolate bar aren't settling well in his stomach anymore (he doesn’t want to hurt his friends, god, _how could he even begin to say that_ ). But he doesn't want Oz to stay. Oz _can't_ stay. Arago _knows_ he's going to have more nightmares tonight, feels the certainty of it like a snake wrapping around his neck (he can't remember the last night he didn't dream).

And he knows a thing or two about PTSD at this point. Knows enough to recognize it in himself and in Oz sometimes. He knows that having two veterans in the same room at night when one of them is bound to wake up, disoriented and crying at best and screaming at worst, is a terrible fucking idea.

He pulls his knees up just enough to block Oz’s view of his face, shuffles a little more into the corner of his bed. It’s a position that basically screams “nevermind”, and it’s all the go-ahead Oz needs to pull out a sleeping bag, clear up just enough space on the floor for it, and get comfortable. Arago almost sneaks a peek at him, but there’s still guilt roiling in his stomach, and he’s pretty sure Oz _knows_ , and is taking advantage.

“ _Actually_ , I think this tight space will do me just fine, thanks.”

Arago doesn’t answer. The words on the page don’t make any sense- what was he even reading again?

“Turn off the light whenever you’re done reading, I’ll see you in the morning.” Oz yawns, and there’s the brief sound of him settling in.

After a minute or two Arago hazards a peek past his book-shield. Oz’s breathing is even, slower than usual but not slow enough to trick him into thinking that Oz is properly asleep. He’s got no illusions about sneaking out. Ideally, he’d stay up all night and leave at dawn (get to the precinct early, hideout in the Special Crimes office and pretend Joe might walk in yawning at any moment). He’s already been missing too much sleep lately, though. He feels the lack of proper rest in his bones, in the dizzy spells he keeps getting that make it hard to see straight more often than not.

He’s not sure he can hold out the entire night, but the only alternative is inevitably waking himself and Oz up from a nightmare. He steps over Oz to drop the book on his desk and grab his laptop (throw it onto his bed), steps over him again to stumble into the doorway and kick off his shoes. His hoodie, gloves and pants go on the back of a chair in the kitchen. He turns off the light on his way to bed, pretends he doesn’t hear Oz shift like he’s listening (making sure he doesn’t run), and makes himself comfortable in his bed again; this time with his laptop instead of the book.

 

He falls asleep.

Fucking- he _falls asleep_.

And then he shoots up with the taste of blood on his tongue and his jaw clamped shut, grinding down. His pillow feels awkward and sticky, and he’s more than willing to bet that it’s from his own tears. He shifts enough to see the clock, 5:17AM. May as well get up then.

His laptop screen is still on, it’s just enough light to be sure that he hasn’t spilled any blood from his mouth onto his bed, a small blessing (the bigger blessing is the fact that he doesn’t seem to have woken Oz up). He throws his blankets off and makes his way to the bathroom only stumbling twice from the dizziness, intent on not giving his nightmare a single thought (he needs it to fade away before he throws up), intent on not letting Oz see him before he can wash his face and freshen up just enough to pretend he doesn’t want to die first thing in the morning (what a goddamn joke).

He doesn’t bother turning on the light, doesn’t need to see his reflection to know how dark and deep the bags under his eyes are or how gaunt his face is or how dead his eyes look. Doesn’t need to see the blood he spits into the sink (the sound of it is already ringing in his ears) (it sounds too familiar). He can feel whatever he’d bitten through healing once his teeth are no longer sunken into it. Can almost taste the blood being burnt because Brionac likes to run hot when fixing things.

He almost coughs. Almost. If Oz is already up (let’s face it, he most likely is, at this point), then Arago can’t let him know how bad things actually are. (It isn’t his first mouthful of blood in the sink.) (He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to let Oz know about _any_ mouthfuls of blood in the sink.)

After the third rinse he spits out, the anger settles in, embers crackling behind his ears and heat rising. _Fuck Oz_ , he shouldn’t have to hide in his own home. What right did he have to just- to just barge in and decide to stay the night? What _fucking_ _right_ did Oz have to tell Arago how to fucking cope. The only thing that keeps him from stomping back into his room is respect for his neighbors who are never up this early (who have already been kind enough about the times he’s woken them up with his screams).

There’s a sliver of light making its way through his curtains now, illuminating the space just next to Oz’s sleeping bag. He pauses. Oz looks- well he doesn’t look young, that’s for sure, but he looks young _er_ than most days. He looks worn out and strangely at peace. On Arago’s floor. (He knows Oz  is probably already awake, or on the verge of waking up.) (It doesn't change the scene before him, though.)

Arago squints. He’s still pissed, and he knows that this anger isn’t going to go anywhere for the rest of the day, but… The thought of taking it out on Oz elicits the same feeling of wrongness as his words last night. He grabs the blanket off his own bed and haphazardly places it over Oz’s sleeping bag, gets some small amount of satisfaction from seeing his friend curl up a bit more to settle into the warmth.

He’s still pissed, at Oz, for _this_ , specifically, but he knows he’s not _actually_ angry with him. He’s just-

He’s just tired.

(He's angry with himself.)

He turns around and pulls off his shirt with a sigh, grabbing the nearest clean-smelling one he can find and putting it on on the way to the kitchen. He pulls on the rest of his clothes (the same as yesterday’s) (no one will notice anyway) and grabs a couple of chocolate bars, shoves them into whatever pockets he finds that are free. His shoes slide on easily and his alarm clock reads 5:54AM when he grabs his keys and helmet. Let Oz deal with the alarm then, not like Arago has _that_ much guilt.

 

His day is shitty. His day is like seven different kinds of absolutely shitty and he is _pissed. Off_. The coffee machine was broken when he got in (there goes breakfast), Rio gave him a _look_ and softly offered to go find someone to fix it (he’d turned around and left before he could say anything he’d regret later), and now he’s hiding from Coco, who absolutely refuses to leave him alone. She’s left him alone on other days when he’d asked, but on this particular day, for some _godforsaken_ reason, she just won’t stop trying to hunt him down. He loves Coco, honestly he does, but he has no patience for that aura or those eyes after his terrible morning (she’s so sweet he gets more cavities from that than from his exclusively chocolate bars diet) (today, it makes him sick).

Larry manages to track him down, surprisingly, and slaps a file onto his head. “You nearly done hiding from your friends and skiving off work?”

He turns on his heel and rips the file out of Larry’s hands. “Fuck off, thanks.”

It’s not Larry’s fault, really. He and Larry have even been getting along better recently. It’s just a bad day is all. He’s already stomping off, because one more second around another person and someone’s ending up with a broken nose. (He keeps repeating to himself that he’ll apologize later, make it up to- to everyone.) (The fire in his gut combined with his growing headache tell him that “later” is very, very far away.)

 

Larry is godsend, apparently, because the contents of the file pull Arago from the precinct for what’s left of his work day, and Coco doesn’t follow him out. When he gets in later, to update Larry on his progress and pick up some stuff before going home, she’s nowhere to be found. Not that he had looked.

He never finds out what she wanted earlier, but it’s better this way.

(He can’t acknowledge the worry squirming in him yet.)

 

His nightly patrols are a good excuse to vent some anger on the few fae who still have the balls to try and kick up a ruckus in _his_ city. When he gets home tonight, though, he feels the fight drain right out of him. His movements are sluggish and stunted as he struggles to pull off his clothes.

He’s so tired. He’s so angry. He’s so fucking angry at everyone and everything but mostly at himself for so many fucking reasons. He hates it with the only shred of passion he has left. Ironic that he feels the most driven when he wants to _die_.

He can feel the anger waning now, replaced with how fucking _sad_ he really is.

He chucks his shirt to the side, whether it lands in a clothes pile or not is none of his concern. He strips to his boxers, turns off the lights and burrows himself under his blanket before the first harsh sob can escape him. He wishes anyone was here now, even Oz would be fine. He’s so fucking _lonely_. A small voice in his head reminds him that he pushed everyone away for a _reason_. The small voice lists the reasons, simple facts, sharp and painful, each twisting the previous ones deeper into him.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he’s glad it happens fast.

 

He wakes up in tears, again. Grinding his teeth to keep it in, again.

The arms around him are new.

Oz is persistent, apparently, and Arago is still partly in his nightmare. Still partly covered in blood (his own, Joe’s, Ewan’s). Still choking. He knows, on some level, that it’s just Oz holding him down, but it feels like the cauldron did when it pulled Ewan in as it closed. His eyes haven’t managed to focus since he got up, so it can’t be real, none of this can be real. The room in front of him is an illusion, like the short one he lived in Lia Fail; present, barely out of reach, the feeling of fabric always off, like there’s a constant layer of _something_ between him and the rest of the world. The breath is being pulled out of him, the _life_ is leaving.

He passes out again, and all he can think as his vision goes black is how glad he is that it’s finally fucking _over_.

 

Arago wakes up, strangely well rested, to a slight clinking sound, and far more light than he’s used to. His body feels distant as he pushes himself up, blinking several times before his vision starts to focus. Oz is sitting at his kitchen table, hunched over the source of the soft sounds that woke him up. Their eyes meet briefly, Oz smiling in his dumb comforting way before moving his attention back to the table, and Arago stares for a slow second, then turns to the alarm clock on his headrest.

10 A.M.

He feels panic rise in throat, almost tastes bile.

He stumbles out of bed. Throws his shirt off and rushes to the bathroom. Arago has never been so thankful that he only needs to shave once every few days.

He brushes his teeth quick and hard (the strength should make up for the lack of time, right?), pauses to lift an arm and sniff. He can get away with just deodorant for today. He switches the toothbrush to his other hand, reaches for the deodorant on the right side of the sink, expertly uncaps it and puts it on as he starts brushing his teeth again. The refreshing mint flavor of the toothpaste is a godsend- he’s finally feeling more rush than panic.

“I called in sick for you,” says Oz as Arago stumbles back into the room.

“The hell d’you mean you called in sick for me? I’m not sick.”

Oz’s eyes narrow. “You need the day off. You need a break, Arago, just take it,” Oz says, back straight, planted solidly in Arago’s path.

Arago steals a glance at the door, then back at the time. He needs to save his sick days for actual emergencies, but tomorrow is the start of the weekend and Oz clearly isn’t about to back down (the way all his energy left him once he didn’t have to go to work anymore does not factor in at all).

He looks back at his bed, but he’s not _that_ tired.

“Fine,” Arago starts.

“No day-hunting fae either,” Oz interrupts.

“ _Fine,”_ he hisses. If that’s how things are then he’s going straight back to bed. He picks up the book he was reading the first time Oz invaded his home and makes himself comfortable. By the time he reaches halfway through the book, he’s out cold, and his sleep is blessedly nightmare free.

It may be the fact that Oz was _right there,_ awake and aware. It may be that he’s been far too tired for far too long. It may even just be that he was reading and for once the topic of the book followed cleanly into his dreams, without being twisted into something dark and painful, but when he wakes up with a start and slightly disoriented, it’s been a solid four hours.

He’s slept more consecutively in this single day than he has in _weeks._

And also Oz isn’t at the table anymore. Which is weird. Arago should’ve woken up when Oz left, he’s usually a light sleeper. He gets up and and stumbles his way to the kitchen table, looking for any clues to Oz’s whereabouts. To his surprise, he finds a smooth round metal ball and a strange assortment of delicate-looking tools. He feels a bit of a pull to it, but nothing happens when he picks it up and turns it around in his hand. He gets the feeling it should be warm, but the metal is room temperature at best. The clear click of his door unlocking has him setting the ball back where he found it.

“I’ve got pizza,” Oz announces from the entrance. Arago’s brows pull together, pensive. Pizza is always an iffy food. The amount he can eat and the toppings he can stomach are never the same.

“What kind?”

“Vegetarian and all dressed, I asked for some extra salt- maybe it’ll make it easier for you since it’s a preservative.” Oz sets the two boxes on the table, pushing his morning’s work to the side. Arago hums.

“Any drinks?”

Oz hauls a six-pack of cola up next, smile stretching across his face (they learned a while ago that soft drinks were just sugary enough that Brionac wouldn’t rot them… most of the time).

“Fuck it,” Arago grabs a can first, cracks it open, and lifts it for a toast. “Here’s hoping.”

The pizza is actually pretty damn good, and the salt definitely helps the way Oz was hoping, but Arago only gets through two slices. His first bite of the third is like eating mold. The grease is extra thick, the cheese and crust start to feel fuzzy as soon as they touch his tongue, he feels the single olive that was on the tip wither as soon as he closes his mouth. He jumps to his feet and rushes to the sink to spit it out before it can make him sick. He pauses for a moment with the water running, but the first two slices stay down. He breathes a sigh of relief, rinses the sink, then turns off the water and returns to the table to slump in his chair. He avoids looking at the pizza again. Instead, his eyes find a distinct metal gleam.

“What have you been fiddling with all day anyway?” he asks.

Oz pouts at the ball on the table, looks at Arago, sighs in defeat as his shoulders slump. He mumbles something under his breath and Arago makes out bits and pieces of the words “supposed” and “surprise”. Oz closes one hand around the ball and reaches out with the other.

“What? Do I need to give you something for this magic trick?”

“Put your hand in mine,” Oz explains, and Arago’s world stops. He reaches out tentatively, maybe even trembling. What the hell is Oz up to? What is- Why-

“I shouldn’t do this,” he whispers, eyes glued to Oz’s open hand. “Don’t ask me to do this.”

“Trust me.”

So he does.

 

There’s no way to dampen his own power. Arago is the only one with the skills to remove Brionac, but he’s not sure he’d be able to put it back- back _in_ , or wherever it’s supposed to be, once it’s out. And he’s terrified. Terrified of being powerless again. Of something being his fault again, because he couldn’t just suck it up and deal with Brionac (with the touch starvation). But this.

_This._

He’s always known that Oz is some sort of genius. Be it battle strategies or fae knowledge or even politics and bureaucracy, Oz has a ridiculously good head on his shoulders, and the ability to consistently put it to good use.

_This,_ is a fucking _miracle_.

He’s going to cry. Scratch that- his vision is blurry and he’s pretty sure he just felt a drop of water roll down his cheek. Oz is holding his hand, completely unaffected by Brionac. There's no burn, no spark, no _nothing._ Between one second and the next he’s let go of Oz’s hand in favor of clinging to him, giving his first proper hug in _ages_ , unafraid of accidentally touching exposed skin when he puts his chin over Oz’s shoulder and practically nuzzles into his friend’s neck. It’s so _nice._ It’s so nice to feel someone else’s warmth so close. It’s so nice to be _touched._

He feels a hand rest on the back of his neck, and either Oz has shivered or Arago has, but it doesn’t really matter. He pulls away, one arm coming up to scrub away at his tears and snot haphazardly.

“How did- I mean what-” Arago laughs, shoulders moving up into a shrug. “I don’t know how you did it, but thanks man.”

Oz offers a smile back. “It’s not much, but I hope it’ll make things easier for you from now on.”

“Not- not much? Are you kidding me? This means- This means the _world,_ Oz.”

Oz laughs, his eyes avoiding Arago’s.

“No, listen to me Oz.” Arago grips his arm, pulling him close. “This isn’t something small you can brush off, this is such a huge weight off my shoulders. Being able to hug you guys, touch you without worrying- It’s really... It’s more than i could have ever hoped for. I was resigned, you know, to just never being able to- It means a lot, OK. Accept that you just pulled some miracle out of thin air and it was _cool_ and _kind_ and I love you so much for this, OK.”

A light blush rises on Oz’s cheeks. “Ok then.”

“Great, not come cuddle with me on my bed. I’ve been _dying_ for some cuddles.”

“I’m not so sure this was a good idea anymore.”

“Shut up. Maybe I should call the others too. Then we can have a puppy pile.”

“You know I haven’t finished with this, right?” Oz asks, bringing the ball up to eye-level. “We have to run tests, I have to tweak it, see if it can manage a range beyond one person, maybe get it to work if you hold it instead.”

“Fine, I’ll call everyone over later.”

Oz sighs, letting Arago drag him onto the bed. “How’d you make that anyways?” Arago asks, plugging in his laptop and settling down with it next to Oz.

“Oh, well, you know, some engineering and math and Claiomh Solais.”

“Did you just say Claiomh Solais? Isn’t that supposed to be locked up somewhere in a vault to be kept safe?”

Oz looks away, his free hand covering what Arago is _certain_ is a smile because that’s a _dimple_ he’s seeing. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, are you breaking Albion laws for me right now.”

“Maybe,” Oz grins, hand no longer hiding his mouth. “It’s worth it, though. To see you happier.”

Arago feels heat rising to face. Not that Oz isn’t right, but _damn_ that’s embarrassing. Who just _says_ things like that? Who does that?

“So I’m just gonna, like, keep watching this thing on Netflix now. And lay here. And hug you. And ignore any more words like that that you say.”

“I’m happy to see you happy, Arago,” Oz deadpans, clearly enjoying the fact that he is now in the position of power vis-a-vis embarrassing people by being honest about feelings.

“I’m watching now! Not listening!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> you can tell where i gave up on writing properly because i just wanted things done lmfao BUT ANYWAY 
> 
> just remember, _puppy piles_. that's all i want for these kids. chill afternoons & puppy piles while they watch netflix or somethin  
> good vibes


End file.
